CHAPTER XVII

A PLANTATION

The next morning after breakfast the Governor led her down the garden to the gate in the edge of yew. He carried in his hand the basket she had seen the day before, containing seeds. But whereas yesterday they had looked green, to-day they had a silvery-white appearance, toning to a liquid aspect as of water in the centre. Beyond the edge stretched a square plot of uncultivated land bordered by willow trees, and at the further side a little hut of wood, just in the shelter of the forest. But here the sun did not shine so brightly. The garden of Pleasure was left behind. This was the field of _Work_.

The Governor led the way across to the hut. It consisted of two rooms, a living- and a sleeping-room, and moreover a little cellar, where she discovered all kinds of garden implements and spades, and one large fork that looked as if it were for digging heavy soil.

He put the basket down upon the table, and then he said:

“This is your little house. These are the seeds to be sown in the strip of land you see without. You must dig and sow, and then wait for the harvest. The books upon the shelves you may study in your leisure, but you must grasp each subject thoroughly before your time of apprenticeship is over.”

So saying, without any word of advice or caution he left the hut and crossed to the gate that led to the garden. Rosalie was left alone.

But though on one side lay a great and unknown forest, she experienced no fear at being left alone, even though when she looked out she noticed how uncompromisingly high the edge appeared, shutting her quite away from sight or sound of the pretty wayside house.

But just then a voice attracted her attention.

“Well! well!” said it, most harshly, “what’s the first thing that a farmer does before he sows his seed?”

“I don’t know, I’m sure,” answered Rosalie; “I’ve never lived in the country,” and looked round to find the speaker.

And there on the doorstep was a frog sitting, looking up at her half contemplatively, half pityingly. Its colours were beautifully striped, green and white. On its head these colours blended brilliantly, taking away some of the staring effect of the wide-open eyes.

“Don’t know?” it answered. “Well! well! You’ll have to dig. Get a fork and dig. Well! well! best to know nothing than to know too much.”

Rosalie went as she was told, and brought the big fork she had noticed. It certainly was very big, and looked aggressive.

“Do you mean this?” she asked.

“What else should I mean? Now then, set to work. The quicker you begin, the quicker you’ll finish.”

“But—but what must I do with it?”

“Grasp it in both hands. Stick it in the ground, and push it in with your foot. Well! well! the sooner you learn, the sooner you’ll know.”

“I won’t!” said Rosalie. “It’s a man’s work; why, it’s digging. I know I was never intended to do that.”

The frog, by way of showing its disgust, gave a contemptuous croak.

“Man’s work? It isn’t the work most men would thank you for giving them. Even as far back as the days of Divine Inspiration mankind was ashamed of it. It’s woman’s work! What man won’t do always falls to the woman.”

“But women never dig in our country,” said Rosalie, still bent on the argument.

“What country’s yours?”

“The biggest in the whole of Lucifram.”

“It would be bigger still if the women applied themselves better,” said the frog, and a short silence followed.

“Do you really think I ought to do it?” said Rosalie, at last, not being of that stubborn nature that delights in saying “no” and sticking to it.

“Well, I don’t see what else is to be done,” said her companion. “If you don’t dig you’ll never sow, and if you don’t sow, you’ll never reap, and if you don’t reap you’ll never—”

“Never what?”

“Prove you’re anything but a fool.”

“Really?” said Rosalie.

“Really!” said the frog; but the expression in each voice was different.

So she stuck the fork into the ground, and found it took a great deal of strength to make any impression upon the surface. But once having put her shoulder to the plough, as it were, there was nothing for it but to go on, for the old voice kept ringing “Go on! go on!” and consequently on she went.

The frog, for some considerable period, watched her from the side, but finally hopped away into the hut. At noonday it appeared again, and summoned her to dinner, which was already prepared in the little living-room.

“Who prepared my dinner?” asked Rosalie, after she had washed her hands and settled to the meal.

“I did,” it replied. “It’s a woman’s work certainly, but if you waited for a woman to do it for you, you’d come badly off. No; I’m a frog, but when there’s no one else by I can do other work besides my own. How do you like digging?”

“It makes me very tired, and the inside of my hands are quite sore.”

“Are they? Well, you’ve got to go on again this afternoon, you know. If you don’t get the seeds in before very long they’ll wither.”

She answered nothing, but after the customary hour of rest returned again to the hard labour.

It was slow work and very hard, and not a soul came near all the day long. In fact, during the afternoon even the frog seemed to have deserted her, and it was not till the first faint tinge of evening crossed the sky that she again heard the familiar voice calling from the wooden doorstep:

“Time’s up now; tea’s ready.”

Rosalie let the fork drop on the ground, and turned round as eagerly as her tired body would allow.

Whilst she ate her tea, this new friend sat upon the hearth.

“I shall be as stiff as a board to-morrow,” said Rosalie, laying her tired arms upon the arms of the chair.

“No; my master sent down that little bottle on the mantelpiece for you. You must take it before you go to bed, and you will be all right in the morning—so far as stiffness is concerned, anyway. We don’t go in for torture here, but we believe in hard work—very hard work sometimes.”

When the meal was finished the frog said:

“Now, if you will take this arm-chair by the fireplace, I will remove the table.”

She did so, and was surprised to see that when the frog pulled a small knob in the wall the whole table, which, however, was not large, disappeared through an opening partition, and left the room clear.

“If you want to read or study, you must draw that writing-desk nearer,” continued her instructor.

“I don’t want to do anything to-night. I’m so tired, I think I’ll go to bed early.”

“That wouldn’t be a bad plan, seeing you have only been at work one day, and find it all so strange. You’ll be more accustomed to it to-morrow, and get more done.”

“Yes,” said Rosalie; “I’m all impatience to be finished. It is such dreary work, and I’m quite inquisitive about the seeds. I wonder whether they’ll grow up roses, or lilies, or nasturtiums, or dahlias, or hyacinths, or chrysanthemums, or what?”

“Don’t you know much about seeds?”

“Nothing. Uncle was very clever that way; but I never cared about seeds—they looked so very uninteresting; I only cared about the flowers.”

“If I were you,” said the frog, “I would rub a little of that liquid out of the bottle on my hands. If they are blistered and sore it will heal them very quickly. I’ve had sore hands myself, so I can sympathise. And here’s a pair of gloves,” it continued, drawing a pair from behind the coal-scuttle. “I made them this afternoon, instead of coming out to keep you company. I might have made them outside, but I thought it would be a little surprise for you.”

“Oh, thank you,” said Rosalie. “How very thoughtful of you! Where did you learn everything you know?”

“Well! well!” said the frog, with quite a sorrowful croak, “I learnt it in the school where it is most generally taught.”

“Where was that?”

“In the school of experience and adversity, for the most part.”

“Don’t you think that people can be kind unless they’ve gone through a great deal of suffering?” asked Rosalie.

“Now and again, just now and again, one finds them. But they’re few and far between.”

“I think suffering and trouble make people bitter, or else break them up altogether.”

“Not if they’re made of the right stuff,” said the frog. “It’s the needle’s eye that rich and poor men alike have to pass through. If you can’t stand sorrow, you can’t stand happiness, though you may think you can.”

“But we were made to be happy. The Serpent—God rather, meant us to be so.”

“God meant us to be happy eventually,” said the frog gently. “But like all things else worth having, it takes a great deal of fighting for. Contentment and peace are the nearest approach to it one generally gets the other side of heaven.”

“I don’t like the word ‘peace.’ It reminds me of a fat woman, and a dinner of suet dumplings.”

“You’re prejudiced, or else you’ve mistaken it for lethargy.”

“Well, is not contentment a state of lethargy?”

“No; when you’re most contented, you’re least so. The two things naturally go together, and keep up a constant flow of action that does away with torpidness.”

“How long do you think it will be before my work is finished here?”

“I don’t know. It’s rather a foolish question to ask. No one knows. It depends upon what time the seed takes to ripen and the bent of your mind.”

“And in the evenings must I study?”

“It is your only time. But what you want is plenty of hard work and plenty of deep thought.”

“And that is almost everything,” said Rosalie.

“I believe it is,” answered the frog; and by the simple process of pulling another knob emptied a shovelful of coal on the fire out of the chimney-side.

It was not long after this when Rosalie prepared for bed. She rubbed the liquid on her hands, and found it very soon relieved them. Then she drank the contents of the bottle and retired to the inner room, first bidding the frog “Good-night.”

“I sleep on the doorstep,” said it, “so you may sleep doubly secure. Nothing evil can cross me, for my life is charmed.”

And, somehow or other, there seemed more life, strength, and independence in this small creature than there had ever been in Mariana. Poor Mariana! Rosalie fell asleep thinking of her, wondering how she had taken the news of her escape, and whether Mr. Barringcourt indulged in anything further than a frown when the truth was told to him.

But these thoughts did not keep her long out of the land of dreams. Perhaps it was that Rosalie had enough to do thinking of her own affairs just then. It never struck her that her escape could make any material difference to Mariana. She imagined her living the same even life, with one real pleasure in the week in compensation for its darkness, and saw within her mind the wedding-dress nearing completion, and trembled in her sleep to think it soon must be finished and fade again to nothing for want of one to wear it.

And in the night she dreamt the seeds were sown, the time of harvest came, and every seed appeared as a huge and barren stone. Then in despair and disappointment she wept upon them, and they disappeared.